


No Refunds or Returns

by Takene_ne



Series: unlikely encounters of Mickey G. [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Shameless typical language, ain't no pretty words in that potty mouth y'all, because this is Mickey we're talking about okay, by which I mean lots of swearing and occasional slurs, this is supposed to be a comedy but we'll see how it turns out, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takene_ne/pseuds/Takene_ne
Summary: There are roughly 3 million people living in Chicago but somehow Mickey always has to cross paths with those few he’d rather avoid.akaFive times Mickey stumbles into Ian’s exes and one time he doesn’t have to.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: unlikely encounters of Mickey G. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737580
Comments: 168
Kudos: 610





	1. Cole

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own the characters, obvsly.Title from [Into the Darkness - Will and the Indians](https://youtu.be/aHuRKgv59P0), cuz what’s a gallavich fic without a gallavich song to kick it off, amirite?
> 
> Anyways, I am losing my fucking mind in the lockdown, so this happened. All six parts are already written, so expect updates every weekend or so, as I edit them up. Just so you know, tho, this fic's working titles throughout the process were respectively _"Mickey Strikes Down Upon Ian's Exes Like God's Last Judgement"_ and _"The 5 Times Ian's Exes Met Mickey Milkovich And Lived(?) To Tell The Tale"_ and it should tell you enough of what exactly is this. I mean c'mon. Okay. This is basically 10k of Mickey flaunting his husband in people's faces, but like. _IS IT, BITCH?_

Cole would’ve never thought he’d take a liking to that dingy South Side bar one of his Grindr dates took him to, yet here he is, once again babysitting some pissy beer in the corner of the Alibi Room.

The surprising thing is: he genuinely _likes_ the pace. Maybe it _is_ devoid of the glam and the spark and the overall _cleanliness_ of the places he usually prefers, but there is something about this shithole that keeps him from never coming back.

Cole knows he doesn’t exactly fit into this place, what with his impeccable fashion sense, his cheeky attitude and his actually working taste buds, but the roughness of the Alibi appeals to him in a somewhat mysterious way he can’t quite shake off.

So he comes back.

Every once in a while he puts on his most run-down clothes (that are still _light years_ _away_ better than anything the usual folk are wearing around here, thank you very much), steps down his highlight game a notch and enters the world of the unhinged. It’s exciting.

It’s one of those slower nights tonight with no disputes at risk of turning physical and only half of the sits taken, and Cole’s completely relaxed as he lazily scans the room for any potential prey to make his evening worth the hassle — and really, who would’ve guessed the crude thug type that’s so easy to spot around here can turn so sweet when treated with, ah, the _right hand_.

Cole’s just about to call for his next round of questionably edible beverage the bartender claims to be beer when the sudden movement around the door catches his attention. There’s a man fighting with the door, trying to get in, stumbling under the weight of about a hundred shopping bags he carries in both hands and even one between his teeth. Cole would be impressed by the sheer fortitude of the fine specimen — because _honey,_ he sure is fine as hell — but as a certified veteran of shopping rallies and master of the fine art of handling the loot, he has to admit his technique is somewhat lacking.

Doesn’t mean he’d let the poor soul struggle like that on his own, oh no. That would be… _a shame._

He gets up from his chair in the far end of the bar and before the man can so much as trip through the threshold — because he sure as hell _cannot_ see anything — Cole’s there to grab the bag hanging from his mouth and a couple from his hand.

“Thanks, man,” the stranger spits, wiping his lips with a sleeve. And then he freezes.

“You. What the fuck are _you_ doin’ here?”

Well. That’s unexpected.

“Excuse _you,_ I just helped you out there, bitch. Show some gratitude.” Cole may be delicate looking, but he’s _far_ from being a pushover. Generally, the faster people learn this, the better for their health.

“Like hell I will. Get the fuck outta my bar!”

To say it’s his first encounter with an angry Southsider would be an understatement of the year, so Cole just blinks at the man, completely unfazed, trying to connect his face somehow, since they’ve clearly met before. No such luck, though, so he tilts his head slightly to the right and just asks.

“Do I know you?”

The man blinks at him back, his agitation clearly dying down already and he scoffs a little, making a move to sidestep Cole into the bar.

“Think you might. Punched you in the face, twinkles. Guess that’s not a regular for your fairy ass.”

“Though maybe not,” he adds as he makes his way to the counter, eyebrows raised to all heavens.

And it clicks.

His date with a hot redhead that first brought him here, that ended in a brawl, a proposal and a broken nose. God, Cole will be telling stories about that night for years! He’s also not gonna let the man just _get away_ now.

“You stole my date,” he says by way of peace offering and trails after his offender to deposit his luggage behind the bar, apparently.

The man gives him an evil eye while he makes sure his bags, carefully tetrised next to the liquor keg, won’t fall crashing down, but he does dignify Cole with an answer.

“You know you were only there because he tried to make me jealous, right.”

It’s not a question and Cole laughs because of course he gathered that much. Rather immediately, in fact, if their hot make-out session in the middle of the carnage was any clue.

“I’m Cole,” he offers instead, reaching out for a handshake.

“I know,” the man smirks and doesn’t reciprocate.

“Oh, come one, bitch, don’t leave me hanging.”

And it’s a testament to how much must’ve changed in the months since that proposal night because the man just rolls his eyes and doesn’t even flip him off.

“Mickey,” he says and saunters off to talk to the bartender.

By now Cole has become well accustomed with the way Kevin handles his bar and he knows for a fact that if you’re allowed behind the counter, you’re either a friend or he owes you big money. By the way they’re laughing and play-punching each other it doesn’t seem like the latter, so Cole has no qualms about throwing his two cents in between.

He leans deep over the counter as close to the talking pair as he physically can and doesn’t even bother trying to listen to their conversation.

“So. Did you guys get married or what?”

Yes, that definitely earns him a pause. Mickey’s looking at him again, all evil and disbelieving judgement, doing that eyebrow gymnastics in a way that maybe would’ve been intimidating if it weren’t so hilariously cute. Cole starts to suspect that The Look must be Mickey’s default response to bullshit, which, _fair enough._

“Hell yeah they did!” Kevin’s voice booms through the noise as he jovially pats Mickey on the back. “Had a proper wedding and everything!”

That seems to finally do it for Mickey, because he shrugs away from the bigger man and promptly flips him off. Kevin seems to immediately take the hint, though, as he brings his hands up in a universal surrender gesture and _winks_ at Cole.

“Alright, I’ll leave you kids to it.”

“Tell me all about it,” Cole demands then, immediately, because _proper wedding_ and the grouchy man in from of him somehow don’t mix in his mind at all. Exasperated ‘ _fuck off’_ is what he gets in return, but that’s alright. He cracked tougher nuts before.

“Or I won’t believe you, man. Big, tough guy like you walking down the aisle? Doesn’t really compute, you know what I’m saying?”

“You ain’t gonna live me the fuck alone, are you?”

Oh, Cole’s gonna be smug about this. He’s so earned the right to be smug about this.

“Nuh-uh”

“Alright. Just don’t… don’t go all faggy and shit on my ass or something,” Mickey sneers, but there is no real bite behind it. Maybe he’s a little smug to gush about his husband, too. Cole totally would’ve been; it’s a hot piece of ass he’s married to, after all.

“Shut up, bitch, it won’t take all night!” he slurs, playing on his vowels like a finest virtuoso as he grabs Mickey by the arm and manhandles him to his corner table. He doesn’t care about the stuttering, vulgar protests that are falling from Mickey’s mouth like a Niagara Falls of filth, he just laughs and orders another beer form equally amused Kev, watching them from afar.

Maybe it won’t take all night. Maybe he’ll get bored real fast (unlikely), and maybe Mickey will punch him in the face again (potentially viable) but Cole decides that he rather likes this scruffy, prickly man, so it actually just might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cole, ok. I aspire to achieve that level of fabulous like a fucking enlightenment and I would die happy if they brought him back in season 11, even if just for a scene. All in all, tho, I think he and Mickey would make absolutely _fantastic_ friends. Like, imagine the _CHAOS._
> 
> **No, I’m dead serious. Someone write this, I will bake you a cookie!**
> 
> [come say hi on tumblr!](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


	2. Kash

Kash doesn’t know what exactly he’s doing back in Chicago.

Well.

He knows precisely _what_ he’s doing, it’s just the _why here_ that’s a mystery. Getting Linda to divorce him after all these years of mutual ignorement just so he can remarry a man that loves him, no less, even a few years ago would’ve seemed like an impossible fit. A fever dream straight out of a fairy tale that had nothing to do with his actual, real life.

Yet here he is, standing on the South Side’s dirty, bloodied soil, almost a decade later and feeling as frightened as the day he left.

It doesn’t really help that time has changed this place as much as it changed him, either. The neighborhood may look a lot more _tidy_ than he remembers it, with its tiny cozy coffee shops and organic food markets but the stench of the old South Side demons sunk so deep into the bones of every building, every little nook and creek, every dark corner, that no gloss and a shiny coat of paint will ever be able to conceal it. It just makes it easier to ignore.

Kash knows those demons pretty well, though. He used to hide from them in the depths of the faux safety of his store; he used to run from them in poorly lit alleyways, with heart drumming louder in his chest than the whole orchestra of skeletons he used to hide in his closet. He never forgot the times he didn’t run fast enough.

Being back is… _haunting._

But Linda won’t sign the papers anywhere else and Kash for once in his life doesn’t want to be a complete pussy, so he takes one last deep breath, clenches his jaw tight and enters the mall building he’s supposed to meet Linda in.

He knows that he technically still has some time before Linda shows up, but he’s also aware that if he doesn’t go in there _now,_ he will chicken out like he always does and everything will go to shit. So instead he braces himself for the inevitable as he passes right through the open coffee shop area where Linda agreed to meet him. He wanders the mall aimlessly, looking at displays of glasses and little boots selling vegan cupcakes, and tries not to notice how much his hands are shaking in his pockets.

He doesn’t realize when exactly did he enter a clothing store, too distracted by the ways this day could end up a disaster, but by the time he’s walking up the suit ally, pondering absentmindedly what kind of tux he would want for the wedding, he’s painfully aware of his time running out. Rationally he knows Linda _will_ sign the papers — she was always the woman of her word in a way he couldn’t quite ever muster — but what will it take for her to do so, it’s an entirely _different_ story. So Kash worries. He has no real power over her, never had, and even though she wants to be free just as much as he does, Kash has no doubts she also wants to punish him for all that trouble and suffering he’s put her through. That’s okay, though, Kash deserves it. He accepts it. But Linda can be a tarrying force of nature when she’s pissed and Kash also doesn’t doubt she _will be._

It’s only when he starts heading to the main hall again when someone yells impatiently across the store and Kash can feel his blood run cold.

_“GALLAGHER!!!”_

Rationally speaking, Kash knows there is a whole army of Gallaghers running through the South Side, and then even more completely unrelated ones littered throughout the city. Chances that it’s the one he really _doesn’t_ want to meet are so slim that almost nonexistent. Still. It’s not like he can just tell his body not to tense up in an irrational panic response at the mere thought of Ian Gallagher bursting the bubble of his new life like a cheap balloon with just his unsolicited presence.

When he turns around to gauge the danger, though, it’s not Ian walking towards him.

“Mickey?” Kash can’t help the words escaping his mouth in an incredulous gasp even though it’s probably the worst option for everyone involved. Because there is no way Mickey Milkovich, sauntering over maybe ten feet away, wouldn’t hear the undignified shriek that may or may not have escaped his mouth at the sight before him. And isn’t that a shock?

If Kash had ever thought about what future could hold for one Mickey Milkovich, the terror of his younger days — which he didn’t. He never thought about the future back then — it certainly wouldn’t be a shopping mall uniform. Then again, he would’ve never imagined life free of Linda for himself either, so maybe his judgement isn’t worth shit anymore.

Mickey stops and looks at him with no recognition, and for a second Kash thinks that maybe today, just today of all days the luck is in his court. But then Mickey’s head tilts slightly as he scratches his brow intently and Kash knows there is no way out of this now.

“Towelhead?” Mickey asks with confusion clear in his voice and Kash suddenly remembers how much he hated that slur. “Thought you fucked off to pussyland for good.”

Ah, that charming personality. Good to be reminded why he didn’t miss Chicago even for a day.

“Just passing by,” he says weakly, because Kash might’ve spent the last ten years of his life trying to stand up for himself but Mickey Milkovich is not someone he’ll ever be able to talk back to. There is just this intrinsic air of danger around him that only intensified since Kash has last seen him as a boy, and testing how much — or how _little —_ cheek will get him his teeth knocked in is not something Kash is really willing to try.

He is saved from further embarrassing himself in from of his former enemy/tormentor when the shop’s telecom creeks and someone yells even closer this time:

_“Gallagher!”_

Kash can’t help the wince shaking his whole body just for a split second, but Mickey must notice the change on his face because his own appearance twists playfully and he clicks his tongue taking a step forward.

“Lookin’ for someone, Julia Roberts?”

Kash doesn’t have time to answer, though, because there’s a mountain of a man coming from behind a stack of shirts that looks _very_ displeased. He pats Mickey on the shoulder and Kash swallows convulsively because even the ill fitted suit the stranger is sporting cannot hide the thick, swell muscles of his arms.

“Can’t you hear me, Gallagher? Office, now,” he demands in a low voice that promises nothing but agony and pain, and then turns his sharp attention to _Kash_ of all things and Kash is suddenly very sure he’s going to die right here, in the middle of Chicago’s crappy shopping center.

“You caught a thief, huh?” the man asks Mickey pointedly and for a moment there Kash thinks he’s doomed. Thinks Mickey is going to frame him, just like that. That he’ll take away his freedom and his future like Kash did to him all those years ago and won’t even blink.

But Mickey smiles, one of those little, crooked things that usually meant he’s gonna _fuck you up_ any second now — Kash was very _intimately_ familiar with that smirk once upon a time — and reels back a little, not making any attempt to get away from the mountain man.

“Nah, just a lost customer,” Mickey slurs and Kash’s breath hitches. Then he turns to the big man in his immediate vicinity and without much ceremony looks him straight in the eye. “Calm your tits, I’ll be right over. Gotta escort this one out first.”

The man doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head at Mickey’s antics, probably knowing better by now. His curious eyes don’t leave them even for a moment before he disappears behind the mannequin display, wandering off.

“What. Surprised? Told you I like ‘em sweet,” Mickey says with a cocky smirk and a wiggly eyebrow, and it’s that same nastily bold expression he sported all those years ago, the same one that Kash _shot_ him for, only not really. It’s still horrifically taunting and Kash thinks he maybe deserves it now, if he understands correctly and Mickey and Ian are still together now, after _all this time_ , but there is something else to it, too. Something he has never seen in Mickey before.

It’s a crazy thought, one completely off the rails bonkers, but Kash thinks it’s happiness he’s seeing shining through all that familiar bravado. He looks at Mickey Milkovich — no. Mickey _Gallagher,_ the notorious South Side thug and general Bad News omen, and sees a man that is happy in his own skin. Kash has no idea if it’s marriage that did it for him, or maybe just ditching his family’s legacy along with his name, but that silent, underlying confidence is something he would want for himself one day, too.

“Yeah. You did,” Kash admits quietly and doesn’t smile. There isn’t much else he can say.

“Now get the fuck out of my store, dipshit!” Mickey spits and Kash knows this is his last warning, so he does. It’s time to face the music, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of all Ian’s exes I like Kash the least. Like, go die in a fire, bitch. But since this is his POV, I couldn’t exactly _trash_ him, now could I? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> [ tumblr :3](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


	3. Trevor

Trevor’s busy.

He’s only at Patsy’s to pick up cake order for his meeting with sponsors later and it wouldn’t normally be _him_ running errands like this, but they’ve been a little short-staffed lately and need all the man-power they can swing.

So here he is, queuing by the counter with what he assumes must be the regular crowd, smelling the intense aroma of coffee and fries and thinking how on Earth is he gonna milk forty grand off of those rich assholes in one sitting. One of his shelter homes needs new roofing, _fast_ , and it’s gonna be _pricey_. He doesn’t focus on anything in particular as he runs various negotiations scenarios in his head, mostly consisting of a hefty dose of begging and a dash of groveling; some sugar-coated threats; some ass-kissing, figurative and not.

He’s too busy trying to keep his cool about all this that he doesn’t notice the commotion happening outside until someone body slams him into the counter, barreling through the dinner like an angry missile tank.

The shock only lasts a second, though, and before Trevor can even start to think about his _surely_ bruised ribs, there’s another body coming through, following the first man into the back area with equally great speed and force. He’s spared this time, thankfully, and it’s easy enough to grasp what’s going on.

Well.

At least he tries to. But the screaming match that goes off in the kitchen is too sharp, too loud and too full of pointless obscenities for him to catch the gist of it. And it’s not like Trevor cares; he doesn’t know any of the people involved. The faster they can solve their shit, though, the faster he can get his pies and get the hell out of here.

One of the waitresses seems to have a similar idea, because she storms to the back and a female voice joins the shout-off. Shortly after the blessed silence descends.

It’s weird, really, how nobody else seems to react. Trevor’s not sure if that’s because brawls happening in broad daylight despite all the gentrification are still a regular thing in the South Side or if it’s just this place specifically, but it’s a little baffling. Same as the fact that nobody really bothers the one man that emerges from the kitchens after the screaming finally subsided, and casually heads to _walk out_ the venue again.

The man is rather short and a little scruffy; more than a little ruffled from whatever happened with the other dude. As he lets his gaze follow after the man outside, Trevor has a lingering feeling he knows him from somewhere, or at least that he’s seen him before. He’s not exactly sure why, but as soon as the man reaches the door, Trevor expects another violent outburst, maybe some good old fist fight even, but what he actually sees through the door’s glass after the man finally leaves, gives him a pause. It’s two men unashamedly kissing in the middle of the street, one of which he used to know pretty well.

It’s a very _thorough_ kiss, too.

As the man lets go of Ian Gallagher’s waist and, surprisingly, walks back into Patsy’s, stupid smile blooming on his face looks like it doesn’t belong there at all. Trevor chooses to focus on Ian, though. On his hair, longer and even more orange than he remembers, on his shoulders — wider and more buff; on his face, lighten up in a way too goofy to look real and yet somehow radiating more happiness than Trevor ever thought was possible.

When the diner’s door open and Ian’s partner walks inside, Trevor can hear Ian booming behind him with amusement, “Five o’clock, Mickey!” and his bright laughter as the man — _Mickey_ — promptly flips him off before shutting the door again and cutting all the noise from the outside.

And Trevor really can’t help himself but ask the man now leaning against the counter next to him:

“Mickey? _You’re_ Mickey Milkovich?”

All the mirth, so clear on his face up to this moment dissolves in a blink of an eye and the man frowns, visibly gauging Trevor as a potential threat.

“Who’s askin’?” he retorts with enough suspicion that Trevor is immediately sure this is, in fact, the one and only prison escapee he’s heard so much about.

“I’m Trevor. Ian and I used to be friends. You know... before.”

If Trevor thought this would take him off the hit list, apparently he was dead wrong, as Mickey’s glare only gains on intensity. His frown morphs into an outright hostile scowl and for a second there Trevor thinks he might get treated to yet another shouting charade, only this time with him at the receiving end, but Mickey stays silent. He digs out his phone, fiddling with it for a minute and Trevor’s about to give up on the immediate awkwardness and follow up with some other nonsensical admission when Mickey speaks to him again, eyes still glued to his screen.

“And I should care _why…?”_ he asks, all closed off and frigid. Trevor doesn’t think it’s fair; it’s not like he’s earned any of this animosity from a man who’s never even met him before. He considers for a moment that maybe Mickey’s not comfortable having small talk with one of Ian’s exes, but he hasn’t thought about Ian in that context for years and it was _him_ that Ian left to chase after his felon of an ex-boyfriend, so—

_Oh._

Maybe _that’s_ the problem.

“Oh. No. I just— I was there when the cops told him you escaped. Didn’t know you guys were both back in town, that’s all,” he says because he doesn’t really know how to explain his interest in Mickey otherwise.

It seems to do the trick just fine, though, as Mickey seemingly does a full one-eighty.

His shoulders slump, his face loses its wolfish edge and one of his eyebrows flies skyward in a way Trevor can only describe as _wicked._

“Holy shit, you’re gay Mother Teresa.”

It’s teasing mockery all of a sudden and Trevor’s thankful for the change of tone, even though he’s not entirely sure what prompted it. He’s kinda amazed by how fast Miceky’s mood can change but he also remembers Ian telling him that one time that Mickey’s kinda crazy, too, and Trevor briefly wonders if that’s what he had in mind.

“Well that’s… not exactly true,” he tells Mickey instead and chuckles a little. It’s not a term he would ever give himself at all.

“So what do you want?” There is no bite to the question, just plain curiosity and maybe a pinch of jeering glee. It’s a tone Trevor could get used to.

“Just saw you outside and wanted to ask how he’s doing. With prison and all. You know. Cause last time I saw Ian he’s been acting… _pretty insane_.” It’s not what Trevor wants to say, not really. Even when they were together, he always left the case of Ian’s mental health _to Ian_ , always firmly believing in healthy boundaries and relationship _not_ being therapy. It’s what drove them apart, in the end, it’s what always would have done, even if the whole Mickey-incident never have happened.

It’s not like Trevor didn’t care, though. He cared. Ultimately he just cared about his kids and his own wellbeing more. If that makes him an asshole, fine, but it’s not what he wants Mickey to know.

Not with the way he can see his defenses flare up again and a cold, vicious fire starting to build up behind his eyes.

“Fuck you, Ian’s not crazy!”

Only he _is_ , certifiably so. But that’s not something Trevor would ever hold against him, not really. Just something he couldn’t really _deal with_ , not when it mattered the most.

“Alright, easy, tiger,” he tries to calm Mickey down, not ready for yet another onset in the least, as he can already tell touching this subject wasn’t his brightest idea. Well, _who would’ve guessed_. Not him, apparently.

Mickey’s not responsive, though and Trevor opens his mouth to say something else, maybe joke about fate leading them to talk here for a reason, but Mickey doesn’t even look at him anymore, eyes fixed on something across the room.

“Listen, man, you gotta any business with my husband why doncha jus—“ Mickey mumbles not facing him and Trevor thinks he maybe misheard that.

“Hold up. You’re married?”

That’s unexpected. Trevor knew Ian was ruined for anyone else pretty much the moment he realized his boyfriend run off to chase after his fugitive ex, but marriage he didn’t expect. Not so soon, at least. Ian couldn’t have been out of jail for long now, and how’s Mickey parading Chicago streets in plain sight Trevor doesn’t even want to imagine. So he’s a little shocked at the revelation, that’s all. And maybe a little mystified, too, when Mickey smiles, wide and unrestrained, wiggling his ringed-up hand in front of Trevor’s face.

“Hell yeah, motherfucker!”

“ _Wow_. Congratulations, then.”

And he really means it.

“Thanks,” Mickey says offhanded, still focused on something Trevor can’t really see, following it through the diner. When their eyes snap together again, Trevor can say Mickey’s lost all interest in whatever this wreck of a conversation was and is about to bolt any second now.

“I don’t have time for this shit,” he says hastily, tapping into his phone that Trevor didn’t even notice was back in his hands with furious brutality. “You wanna find Ian, fine. I don’t give a fuck ‘bout your rainbow bullshit.” He pockets his phone and looks at Trevor one last time, simultaneously assessing and indifferent. It’s possibly the weirdest look he gave Trevor so far. “We’re at the Gallagher house, so,” Mickey adds with a small, pointed wave of his hand and with that he just takes off.

Trevor watches him run after the guy from before that he must’ve been focusing on, and not for the first time muses what’s so special about Mickey Milkovich. This time there is no spite behind it, though, only wonder.

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” he says to the empty space Mickey left behind and can’t stifle a smile.

Maybe he should take him up on that offer. He and Ian were always better as friends and he kind of misses that. And who knows, if he’s careful enough, maybe this time he can score more than one extra pair of friendly hands to help around the shelter, too.

_Mickey Milkovich_ , huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have anything clever to say here :v
> 
> [my tumblr if you wanna come by :3](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


	4. Ned

Ned likes minding his own business. He likes to keep his problems to himself and likes to _not_ flaunt his preferences to anyone they do not concern. It didn’t always work out for him so well, but Ned’s pretty happy with his life. He might be divorced and not exactly on speaking terms with any of his children, but his career is thriving and he has plenty of _young_ _beautiful things_ to keep his company whenever he only just wishes so. So yeah. It’s a quiet life, certainly more so than he once would’ve expected to have, but a good one. An honest one, at least, as far as his standards go.

Ned likes keeping things to himself — it’s how he’s managed to stay afloat through all those years of bullshit. But when he sees one _painfully_ familiar face gawking through the window of an off-brand jewelry store on his way home, he simply cannot leave it be.

“Lookit here, Chicago’s favorite fag beater! I thought you were locked up,” he says with mock cheerfulness by way of greeting to one Mickey Milkovich who he hasn’t seen in years. Mickey instantly turns on his heel to face him, surprise clear on his features like the light of day.

_“Dirty Grandpa?”_ he asks, incredulous.

To say Mickey’s happy to see him would be an understatement of the year. Well. Ned probably shouldn’t be this amused standing eye to eye with a kid that used to bash his face in with vicious determination of a jealous bottom, but somehow seeing Mickey in a setting so far removed from the dirty alleyways of the South Side seems genuinely hilarious to Ned. Or maybe it’s just his general good mood bleeding in on the encounter, but either way, he can have a conversation, right?

“Mickey Milkovich in the flesh. Never thought I’d see the day!”

“Fuck _off._ ”

Mickey’s staring at him like Ned’s a piece of filth stuck to the sole of his shoe, which might be fair, but it’s also very different to the look he used to get from him before. And sure, time has passed, they both changed and moved on, but Ned knows Milkoviches aren’t people that let grudges go, ever. Maybe not personally, but he heard enough tales from Ian to stay clear of this particular brand of trouble. Disdain’s clearly there, but it’s surprising that there is virtually no violent intent radiating off of Mickey and that’s _something._

But Ned wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t push a little.

“So, how’s Red? You still see him?” Ned asks, genuinely curious, but mostly just to get a rise out of Mickey.

He doesn’t take the bait, though. Instead, Mickey smiles, and it’s not even close to that crooked smirk that would appear right before the punch — the only kind of smile Ned has ever seen him pull off before. It’s sweet actually, and Ned would’ve never guessed Mickey’s face could look this _soft._

“We’re married, actually,” he says. There is a challenge in his voice for Ned to question him, to say the wrong thing and provoke some kind of reaction that will then be entirely on _him,_ but Ned won’t. He isn’t gonna fancy having a shiner tomorrow at work, and besides, this is just too curious to give up on so easily.

“No shit?” he tries instead, and is wholly satisfied when Mickey sniggers and promptly flips him off. Only Ned quickly realizes that it’s a wrong finger he’s seeing, as the two metal bands shine across the dark outline of a _‘U’_.

“No shit,” Mickey actually laughs.

And that’s good, that’s great. Ned never wished Ian anything but good fortune, even when he went off the rails and dragged Ned right along for a while, but if he’s married now that has to mean he’s better. From what Ned has seen of him — which, maybe wasn’t much, but Ned prides himself on his people reading skills — Mickey Milkovich is many things, but pushover isn’t one of them. So if Ian managed to lock his ass down, it must’ve been on a sober mind.

Ned smiles a little, drinking Mickey’s confident, radiant stance in like a well-aged wine. As rough as these two might’ve been back in the day, high school sweethearts staying together and actually being _happy_ together is much more of a legend that TV tends to make it these days. Ned knows something about it very intimately. Looking at Mickey, sticking like a sore thumb on a North Side street, he hopes they’re really going to make it.

The moment is broken when a rig, all wailing sirens and blasting lights, speeds past them in the general direction of Ned’s hospital and the sense of awkwardness that wasn’t there before draws heavily on the silence.

“So uh. You still fucking teenage boys?” Mickey shifts uncomfortably, stepping closer to the display window and Ned wonders for the first time what is it that he’s looking here for. He’s not interested enough to ask, though.

“Well.”

“Whatever, man. I don’t fuckin’ wanna know.”

Mickey rubs his eyebrow irritably, the easiness from before all gone, and Ned knows he’s going to scram any minute now. It’s not like he doesn’t understand the lack of need to chit chat with one’s husband’s _geriatric_ ex. It was surprisingly good seeing him, though.

“Tell Red I said hi,” Ned says, making an open gesture with his arms, readying himself to head home again.

“Yeah, ain’t fuckin’ gonna happen,” Mickey scoffs in retaliation. For some reason, Ned doesn’t believe him.

“Alright, easy,“ he allows with a little acquiescent nod to support his point. “Good luck, Mickey Milkovich. Please don’t rob the store while I’m still close enough to catch complicity.”

Mickey flips him off for real this time, but his gaze loses an edge.

“It’s Gallagher now,” he says in a way that’s half-mocking, half-proud and Ned can’t help but feel a little bit happy for him, too.

“Well then, goodbye… Mrs. Gallagher,” he jokes when he’s already passing Mickey on his way, but there isn’t any bite to it, not really.

“Fuck you, doc. See you never!”

He can hear Mickey shouting behind him and then a happy chime of a bell of the jewelry store that he must’ve finally entered, but Ned doesn’t turn around. He goes ahead thinking of the strange ways life unfolds, pulling and pushing at people until they land together in a perfect spot. Thinking about how happiness doesn’t last forever, but how forever can be found sometimes in just one, special day. It’s a nice thought to have.

Ned knows that everything waiting for him right now is an empty apartment and maybe a promise of a warm body later to sweeten his night, but it’s his forever, too. Simple and quiet, true, but he’s content with it enough.

Not everybody needs an epic love story to be happy. He’s certainly happy enough knowing that other people are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of all six, this one was actually the hardest piece to write, because I don't really _feel_ Ned the way I do the others, y'know? So if I fucked up, go ahead and yell at me.
> 
> [ tumblr :3](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


	5. Caleb

Caleb likes his job. He likes helping people and saving lives; he likes the thrill of jumping into action and the allure of danger creeping up his bones every time he enters a building covered up in flames. Most of all he likes change, though. To see the people, the things he’s interacting with, scorched by fire but still rising against the odds to be reshaped and renewed, and stronger than ever.

He’s seen it happen countless of times. He _made_ it happen a few.

It’s not unusual for the people they’ve helped to come by the station some time later and bring little trinkets of gratitude. Sometimes it’s a bag of nice coffee, sometimes a picture of a child, alive and happy, and sometimes it’s just a kind word: a wish of good fortune; a prayer. So Caleb’s not in the least surprised when he sees a man come strolling in, a wrapped up tray of something in one hand, looking vaguely out of place.

He’s seen people like that before, too; lost but determined to fulfill whatever quest their misfortune compelled them to resolve here.

The man looks around like he’s never seen the inside of a fire station before, and maybe he hasn’t. He doesn’t come off as thrown aback or particularly dumbstruck, though, and as soon as he spots Caleb leaning against one of the poles, he makes a beeline straight for him.

“You Caleb?” he asks in a tone that Caleb cannot identify as neither annoyed nor curious.

“Why?”

The man rubs his upper lip with his free thumb and doesn’t look him in the eye when he asks his next question.

“Listen, um. You know Ian Gallagher?”

Of course he does. But Caleb hasn’t thought about Ian in years.

He heard the guy got involved in some religious gay revolution and took a fall for it — his face flashed in the news a few times, after all — but that was that. No longing, no hard feelings, no nothing. So why is this man even here, Caleb cannot comprehend. Gallagher is a closed chapter in his life and while he can admit he is a man of many vices, dwelling on the past is definitely not one of them. So why scratch it out now?

“I used to, yeah. Why are you asking?”

“I, um” — there’s a pause when the man starts to fidget as if standing still would suddenly physically hurt him and Caleb’s not sure if he should get suspicious or maybe worried. It doesn’t last long enough for him to think that no response will eventually follow, but looking at a twitching man before him Caleb starts to feel a little tetchy himself — “I wanted to thank you.”

Okay, that’s unexpected. It’s not like he and Ian parted on good terms, exactly, and Caleb thinks this has a potential to quickly turn into one of the weirdest conversations he’s had in a while.

“What for? I haven’t seen the guy in years. And what’s it to you, anyway?” he asks, because the silence would feel even more surreal.

“I’m his husband.”

Even though Caleb can clearly hear a defensive note in his voice, the man doesn’t look much fazed by what he’s just revealed. And he’s actually looking at Caleb this time, too, with a magnitude that surely would’ve been impressive if Caleb weren’t at least a foot taller than him.

But that’s. Wow. That huge. That’s _news_ if he’s ever heard one, and certainly not the kind you’d expect to hear randomly on a lazy morning shift. And it also can’t be anything new, per se, judging by the easy confidence the man is holding himself with and Caleb can’t help but feel a little sting somewhere deep inside.

Ian’s husband quirks his brow at him quizzically, and well. Isn’t that a weird thought? There was a time, a short time when they were good and happy — before everything promptly went to hell — when Caleb thought that maybe one day this label would be his.

“Okay?”

The man before him must be growing impatient with his uncooperative questions because he huffs, scratching his forehead and rolls his eyes. Caleb’s pretty sure that whatever he came here for isn’t gonna end in pleasantries.

“Listen, I’ve been running into all his fuckin’ exes for the last few months like a parade of fuckin’ Ghosts of Christmas Past so I figured I’d just bite the bullet and come see you myself.”

“And why would you do _that,_ man. I don’t even care.”

“Yeah, well.” The man makes a small abortive gesture before extending a tray filled with what looks like homemade sugar cookies to him. “These for you,” he says noncommittally.

Caleb looks at him in disbelief.

“I don’t get it.” And he really doesn’t. “You show up here out of nowhere, God knows how did you even track me down, you give me cookies and want to thank me? What for? Fucking your husband before you guys even met?”

And maybe it’s a little harsh of him to attack the man like that, but Caleb didn’t ask for any of this. He was about to have a pleasant morning with his workout routine, help someone on the run and then maybe finally finish his last sculpture after he got home. Not _this._ Digging into the past like it’s no big deal; like he wasn’t also affected by their fallout and has no scars to be itching anew. Because sure, he might’ve been the one to fuck up that time, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t care. A lot. Yet here he is, hot as ever but still as single, while Ian’s fucking _husband_ comes bragging into his life with a tray of _goddamn cookies._

Maybe his father is wrong after all and there is no mercy for the righteous, because this gotta be some cruel cosmic joke.

“Nah, we go way back,” the man says with a small smile, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s causing in Caleb’s mind. Good for him. “Thanks, uh. For taking care of him. When I wasn’t around.”

It’s clear as day that he’s not comfortable being this vulnerable with a stranger at all, and the painful knot that swelled in Caleb’s chest at his last words eases up a little. Unfair as it may be, at least he’s talking to somebody brave enough to wear his softer side out proud. It’s not something Caleb sees often enough, even among his usual crowd.

And who knows, maybe when he’s calmed down later, he will be a little happy for Ian to have found this. Even if with somebody else. Or maybe especially because of that.

“Well, that’s messed up,” he jokes because really, what else is he supposed to do?

“Alright, calm down,” the man snarks back without missing a beat, all dry amusement and exasperation now and something in Caleb rears back for a second. They go way back. As in _before_ Caleb? And maybe it’s none of his business — hell, it probably, pointedly, very much _isn’t_ — but _before Caleb_ means that one relationship Ian was always talking about in the strangest of contexts; always refusing to call it abuse but at the same time so clearly reeking of trauma it made Caleb wince a lot, in the beginning. And _that’s_ his husband now?

It boils Caleb’s blood a little.

He remembers that time when he told Ian he strives to seek in things what they could be instead of what they are, to look for a new life in them; he remembers laughing at the concept of their relationship being exactly that but _wasn’t it_ , in the end?

He met Ian shattered; full of hard edges and barely holding on. He met him lost and angry — at the world, but mostly himself — wading aimless through the muds of his presumably ruined life. And he looked past all of that. Past the rage and the hurt and the disappointment. Past all the doubt, past helplessness, surrender and defeat. He looked past his slummy roots and quick fists and saw someone beautiful. And not only on the outside. He saw someone strong and resilient, a man who could and _would_ achieve something great if he were only able to look past his own shortcomings.

And Caleb knew Ian couldn’t do that himself. Not then, when he felt so powerless in the face of all the odds stacking up against him. So Caleb did it for him. He pushed and pushed, never giving in to the self-pity and endless excuses. And he did a real damn good fucking job.

And now the guy who left the man that Caleb used to love in so many pieces — pieces that _Caleb_ picked up — is here, _thanking him_ for all that heavy lifting? And he is so obviously _happy?_ Caleb isn’t a vindictive person. He never was. As someone so deeply in love with life itself he finds it infinitely easier to just… let go of the ugly parts. But Ian’s husband came looking for him himself, and Caleb’s not gonna just let that slide.

After all, there is nothing worse than the injured pride of an artist. And what he made of Ian _was_ a work of art.

“Wait,“ he says, trying to mentally gauge the reaction his next words are going to score him. “Aren’t you that shitty ex he was always bringing up?”

“Not a fuckin’ ex anymore, am I.”

The change in atmosphere is instantaneous.

The man seemingly curls into himself like a viper ready to strike, but Caleb never learned not to poke dangerous animals.

“That’s you, though, is it? The one that used to bash him and then got married to a whore?”

“Whatever. What do you care, bitch? Just take the damn things so I can go home.” The man is now all but shoving the tray into his chest, looking angry and uncomfortable, his brows tightly furrowed and lips clashed in a thin line. Caleb isn’t done, though.

“How come you’re even out? Weren’t you supposed to be doing like fifteen years for attempted murder or something?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. You wanted to talk. So let’s talk.”

Caleb can almost see the man vibrating with the urge to punch him, but starting a fight in a room full of ripped firemen is a spectacularly bad idea and probably something even he knows he can’t afford. Caleb smirks and grabs the cookie tray from him.

“What’s your problem, Human Torch?” the man snaps in an ugly snarl, jabbing his finger into Caleb’s chest. It’s an odd angle, but Caleb can see the reflection of his wedding bands on a tattooed knuckle. He can also see the moment the man pulls himself together, turning away from Caleb and blinking for a second too long, as if seeking comfort in the darkness of his own mind. And then he looks straight into Caleb’s eye again, but this time the fire burning behind his blue gaze is enough to freeze Caleb into a pause.

“You want me to talk? Fine, I’ll talk.” His tone is light and what he says is calm, but Caleb has no doubts it’s that type of deadly calm you feel before the worst of storms.

“I wanted to be nice, you know,” he starts, with every word leaning a little bit closer into Caleb’s space. “You might be a cheating piece of shit, but you were fuckin’ there to put Ian together when I couldn’t. You gave him a fuckin’ purpose to fight for and I appreciate that ‘cause fuck knows he must’ve been a fuckin’ mess after everything went down” — he takes a breath and Caleb thinks that maybe he’s done, but that couldn’t possibly be it — “but _fuck you!_ ” — ah, there it is — “You don’t get to judge me or what me and Ian have based on a half-ass story you heard from a fucked up kid once upon a time. This ain’t fairy tale, bitch, and you ain’t the fuckin’ knight!”

By the time he’s finished, the man is panting from anger like he’d just run up a mile and Caleb’s not sure what he’s supposed to say now. He didn’t expect this man, this thug, really, to be self-aware enough to recognize the damage he’s done but also to actively acknowledge Caleb’s part in the healing process.

He’s at the loss, pondering how far he can stretch _not answering_ before he gets punched in the face, consequences be damned, but he is saved by the sudden, loud wailing noise of the siren going off and Caleb doesn’t think anymore when he jumps into action. He puts the unfortunate cookies on the counter aside, already moving to grab his gear. But before he even has a chance to so much as shift towards the lockers, there’s a hand on his shoulder swiftly turning him around. A mocked _‘hey, Caleb’_ rings in his ears through the commotion and a stinging pain blooms across his cheek.

He doesn’t really have time to process the thought that the man just bitch-slapped him like a teenage girl in a drama movie, but he does see a middle finger raised in salute and a _‘have a nice life, asshole’_ shouted after the truck.

Later, much, much later when Caleb will look back to this day, free of the emotions it brought in the moment of heat, he will think that maybe, _maybe_ he deserved both the cookies and the slap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Tis my favorite :3  
> I’d say I take no criticism but actually no. Y’all are more than welcome to come shout at me and I’ll be more than happy to discuss!
> 
> [ my trashy tumblr :v](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


	6. Mickey

They’re lying on the grass behind the dugouts, hands lazily woven together and the air around them is just on the right side of being too warm.

Mickey loves it.

The heavy, scalding hot peak of Chicago summer went and past and the afterthought that is late September welcomed them with cozy hugs of southern winds and temperatures below what Mickey would usually describe as _hotter than the fuckin’ Hell_. It’s good. They’re good, basking in marital bliss still as weeks and months go by and Mickey couldn’t really wish for anything more. For anything _better._

He looks at Ian, at his _husband_ — and hell, that still didn’t lose its novelty — with his eyes closed, his too-long orange hair scattered artfully through the grass, his expression sloppy with afterglow giddiness as he smiles softly to the blue, blue heavens above and Mickey may not believe in any deities but he believes in winning. And he’s won. Right here and right now, he’s won his happiness, he’s fucking _earned it_ and there’s nothing in this world that can ever take it away from him.

And it’s fucking _fantastic_.

Mickey slowly rises their linked hands to kiss Ian’s knuckles and can hear him huff lightly when his lips touch the callused skin. It’s not a full laugh per se, and Mickey damn well _missed_ Ian laugh since the so many minutes he’s heard it last. And the best way to make Ian laugh with him, the way that was always easiest for them, is teasing. Being contrary is their own brand of love language, tried and tested through Heaven and Hell and Mickey wouldn’t trade it for anything. So Mickey does what he’s always done best: cracks a stupid joke that wouldn’t be a joke to anyone else.

“I really hope there ain’t no more of your shitty exes running around,” he says easily, nudging Ian in the ribs with his free hand.

“Oh yeah? Who did you meet so far?”

Amusement in Ian’s voice is as clear as the sky above them and Mickey bites back a smile, congratulating himself on the choice of topic.

“Let’s see. There was annoying jealousy fling—”

This time it’s Ian who nudges him, eyes wide open and full of light, conspiratory smirk twisting his face. “Mickey, you _love_ Cole. You two weirdos go out drinking every other weekend!” He does that thing when he tries — and _fails miserably_ — to imitate Mickey’s Eyebrows Of Doom look, and _God._ Mickey lets go of their hands to shove at this stupid, _stupid_ , beautiful face.

“Not my point, firecrotch,” he mocks.

But maybe Ian has a bit of a point here.

After that ridiculous night at the Alibi, Mickey and Cole kinda… hit it off. It was easy, just let himself _be_ around someone so much louder and yet so much more laid-back, that Mickey didn't really want to let it go. Things rarely come to him easy. No reason to give up on those few that do.

Then there’s also this… rebellious aspect to the relationship with someone like Cole that Mickey never thought he’d enjoy. Cole is freedom. He’s no fucks given cockiness and unapologetic brash and that is something Mickey for all his life couldn’t have. Until now.

If anyone ever told teenage Mickey, hell, even adult and _gay married_ Mickey that on day his best bud would be flaming fucking homo fairy queen, he would’ve never believed it. Probably even punched the jokester in the teeth for good measure, but well. It’s a thing that happened. Somehow. And Mickey’d never, ever admit it to anyone, but he’s actually super fucking glad it did. Cole’s a handful at his best, but he’s also chill to Mickey’s rage and openness to Mickey’s setbacks, and as annoying as he can be with his never ending rants about clothing and men, it’s _nice_ , having a friend untouched by all of this. The South Side.

So sue him, he has every right to joke about _that_ fucking disaster, thank you very much.

“Alright, alright! Go on, Jesus,” Ian rebuts but Mickey can tell he’s feigning that annoyed note so he pays him no mind.

“So the fling, that fuckin’ pedo runaway bride, Mother Teresa of saint di—“

_“Mickey!”_

“—saint dick, even more geriatric viagroid, and the narcissistic cheater. That all?”

The way righteous indignation dissipates from Ian’s face to be replaced by guilty puzzlement doesn’t exactly do wonders for Mickey’s nerves. This was supposed to be a light topic for them to fuck around, because now that Mickey’s sure he’s met and cut out all the past garbage off their lives, he’s pretty sure he’s earned the right to joke about it with his husband. But what if there are more skeletons in Ian’s closed he doesn’t know about? What the fuck _then?_

“Oooh,” Ian coos, realization drawing on his face, and Mickey sits up abruptly, not amused anymore.

“ _Oooh_ what, Gallagher?”

Ian sits up too, immediately reaching for Mickey’s hands. His expression is earnest but wary and Mickey expects some bad news. He allows the touch, though.

“Just one more, I promise,” Ian says in a rather pathetic attempt to sound soothing but he isn’t fooling Mickey one bit. “The closet case?” he asks.

“They were all closeted, hot shot,” Mickey snaps back, trying to run mental math on _when_ exactly Ian could fit another boyfriend. He doesn’t take his hand away.

“Nah. Not the latest ones at least.” Ian shakes his head, a little grin curling at the corner of his lips. Mickey doesn’t like it; something’s _off_. “This one, though? Real tough nut. Sometimes I thought he found fucking Narnia.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“Sure I told you ‘bout him? Small, dark and handsome, you know? Very dangerous. Been around for a long-ass time.”

Yeah, something’s definitely off. But Ian’s eyes gleam with hidden mischief now and he wouldn’t be this fucking _candid_ about this if he didn't have any ulterior motives, Mickey’s sure of that. So he just has to wait the fucker out and see where this is going before he gets up and murders someone. Easy-peasy. A walk in the park. _Piece of fucking cake._

“What the fuck, Gallagher?!”

Or not.

“Oh, but don’t you worry, Mick. He’s not a threat anymore,” Ian deadpans nonchalantly, looking utterly ridiculous with strands of grass mixed into his hair and his gangly knees tucked under his chin. It’s not close to being The Chin — which gives Mickey some hope — but his overall demeanor of impish hilarity, hidden poorly behind flat tone and sparkling eyes gives Mickey a pause. So he stares.

“Relax. I’m talking about you, tough guy.”

And what ever the fuck does that even mean? Mickey literally can’t believe what he’s hearing right now.

“Cause you’re my ex, too, you know.”

Definitely can’t. Ian, the smug bastard, flashes him a dopey, loopy grin, like he’s just pulled the most fabulous prank on planet Earth and honestly _fuck that._ Mickey knows Ian’s not only a shitty liar, but also that his stealth skills extend only as far as he can throw. Which must be proficient enough, since Mackey apparently falls for his stupid shtick every single fucking time! He’s clearly too hung up on his moron of a husband to notice the rest of the world — which, fair enough, he totally is. But fuck him sideways if it ain’t a huge fucking hassle in times like this.

 _“Excuse me?!”_ he shrieks, because of course he does. Ian deserves some quality shrieking for playing him like that, the absolute clown.

Ian just grins some more. It’s infuriating.

“Think about it, Mickey. You’re my husband now, right? That technically makes you no longer my boyfriend.” The son of a bitch has the gall to _wink_ at him “Sooo… you’re my ex-boyfriend, officially.” Ian cocks an eyebrow at him and Mickey thinks about all the lame-ass jokes he had to endure through the years, about his own endless love for teasing game and how Ian finally learned how to beat him in it, and Mickey can’t help but burst out laughing.

“You’re such a dick, Gallagher,” he snorts, exasperated affection flooding his chest.

“You like my dick, _Gallagher,_ ” Ian mocks back and well. Mickey can’t argue with _that._

With a new surge of laughter he pushes at Ian’s shoulders, knocking them both back into the ground, and goes for a kiss. He might be too old and dignified — _ha!_ — to try and go at it twice in broad daylight on solid, unyielding ground no less, but Mickey wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t latch into any occasion to french his husband senseless.

It’s awkward as hell, with both of them smiling into the kiss while they roll through the grass and Mickey’s head feels light with happiness again. He feels high; good high. The way no drugs could ever make him feel. And it’s _absolutely incredible._

These days there isn’t a single waking moment when he doesn’t feel _not_ hopelessly in love with Ian Gallagher and it used to scare him shitless. It used to terrify the living fucking daylights out of him, this feeling of being so completely, utterly lost in somebody else that everything else paled in comparison: his safety, his wellbeing, his fucking freedom. All the goddamned world.

It doesn’t scare him anymore.

Loving Ian, being loved _by_ Ian, the little bubble they created amongst all the carnage of their lives — that’s what he lives for, that’s what he _is_ , now. And he’s fiercely proud of that. Proud of _them._

So when Ian finally lets go of him, Mickey doesn’t protest. He allows the gentle caress of his cheek and the feather-like strokes of a thumb along his collarbone. Ian’s gaze is all soft around the edges and Mickey can feel his eyes crinkle when he hides his face in Mickey’s neck.

“Promise husband, now that I’ve gotchu all nice and locked down, no returns. Not ever,” Ian says between nibbling at his delicate skin and Mickey lets out a chuckle. His own hands circle the small of Ian’s back, slowly but steadily going south. He smacks him playfully on the ass when the nibbling gets a little too enthusiastic and he’s rewarded with a low growl of outraged protest.

“Can I at least get a refund for sweating my balls off in this heat for you, please?” Mickey jokes, but he feels pleasantly lazy just lying together like this, cuddling.

Ian scoffs. And bites him.

“Oh, c’mon, Ian. Really?” he grunts but otherwise does nothing to stop his ridiculous husband from sucking what he already knows will be a prominent bruise on his neck. “You’re a dumbass,” he mutters into Ian’s hair.

“You love me.”

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

And he really, really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's it! Some sugary treat to finish the deal!  
> I love you all so much ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> [ my tumblr, if you wanna come by and chat some more ;) ](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

>  **Edit:** I put this in a series to jam all the one-shots I have planned for later in one place. Expect more Cole in the future! :3


End file.
